Bedroom Tales
by junejuly15
Summary: Bedroom Tales is a collection of Johnlock stories. They are set at various stages of their relationship and are in no particular order. Some are fluffy, some sexy, some angsty, there is hurt and comfort, romance and love. What unites them is that they all play in a bedroom, but not necessarily the one in 221B
1. Sherlock can't sleep

**This is the first story in a collection of (I don't know how many) John and Sherlock **_**Bedroom Tales**_**. They will be set at various stages of their relationship and will be in no particular order. Some will be fluffy, some sexy, some angsty, there will be hurt and comfort, romance and love. What will unite them is that they all play in a bedroom, but not necessarily the one in 221B.**

**Let's start with a bit of Johnlock fluff …Enjoy reading!**

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**Bedroom Tales **

When John woke it was with a rather unbecoming snort. Inwardly he cursed the fact that he had woken at all and, as the almost absolute darkness surrounding him indicated, in the middle of the night. God, how he hated being woken, hated it because he knew he would have trouble finding back to sleep. For John it was either uninterrupted sleep and therefore a good start into the following day or lying awake for whatever reason and as a result being cranky and irritable in the morning.

Staring at the ceiling John tried to relax, willing himself back to sleep. Apart from him the whole city seemed to be asleep if the silence engulfing him was anything to go by. No sound could be heard in the house, no creaking floorboard, no toilet being flushed. Even Baker Street was quiet, no cars passing by, no sweetly sighing wind lifting some stray paper and playfully whirling it around for a while, and what was more, there was no sound in their bedroom. In fact it was so very quiet, eerily quiet even, as if someone was holding his breath as to not disturb, as to not be noticed.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?'

'Trying to be quiet. I thought this much was obvious.'

'It _is_,' John conceded, just that tiny bit peeved. 'The question is why are you trying to be quiet?'

'I did not want to disturb you, but I _can't_ sleep,' Sherlock sounded petulant as if it was John's fault. John sighed. If anything it was John's _fault_ that Sherlock had in fact slept much better than ever in the past few weeks they had been sharing a bedroom. It seemed that having company, loving company, had a calming influence on even the most buzzing mind, allowed even someone as hyperactive as Sherlock to relax and slumber. John, on the other hand, slept worse than ever. And as Sherlock, if asked, would be quick to concede, lack of sleep made John a little less than amiable, to put it mildly.

'Well, what do you expect me to do about it?' John gave his pillow a few angry shoves, and settled in for a longer interruption.

'I don't know, there's probably not much you _can_ do,' Sherlock said thoughtfully, but he managed to make it sound as if this problem was definitely worth to be given a lot of thought. He was silent for a moment, but then his voice cut through the darkness again. 'I could get up if I disturb you? There's actually an experiment waiting in the kitchen … bread mould, very interesting.'

'No,' John said. 'No need to get up. You will crawl back into bed in an hour or so with ice cold toes and shove them between my legs to warm them up. And then I'll be wide awake again. Stay.'

'Good.' Sherlock said and nodded into the darkness. John was only mildly angry and seemed to be sufficiently awake, maybe he could ask him a favour.

'There is actually something you might be able to do for me.' Sherlock hesitated, pondering if he could really dare asking this. 'Could you …maybe … touch me a bit. Not in a sexual way, just soothing, calming touches. Only recently I have read reports claiming that babies find back to sleep much more easily when their mothers or fathers lightly caress them.'

'Well, you're not a baby.'

'An astute observation, John.'

Silence settled between them, and John was almost dozing off again when a rather small voice asked again.

'Well, would you?'

'Right - C'm here.'

Sherlock made a mental note of John's clipped speech, usually either a sign of irritation or sleepiness, but in this instance he could not yet decide which was prominent, not without gathering more data. Maybe later, he thought. Right now he was happy to settle against John's side, placing his head on John's warm chest.

John started lightly brushing his fingertips over Sherlock's skin, starting at the back of his hand, then his wrist, circling his elbow and up to his biceps and down again, repeating the routine. It was a tickling, a gentle, a too soft sensation. And every time John's fingertips reached Sherlock's upper arm, the thin fabric of his sleep shirt dulled the feather-light sensation to an almost nonexistent touch. Sherlock sighed impatiently.

'It's not working!'

'Hm?' John seemed to have drifted back to sleep – almost. 'What?'

'I don't even feel your touch. How is that supposed to calm me?'

'Right.'

John applied a bit more pressure, but it was hard to keep the irritation away from his touch and Sherlock started to wiggle.

'Stop it!' John said. 'How on earth do you want to go back to sleep when you don't keep still?'

'Your touch is just not right. You should establish an even pressure, light enough to be pleasant and firm enough to be noticed. Can't be that hard, John!'

John decided to ignore the commands and resumed his task of caressing his love back to sleep. And indeed, Sherlock soon seemed to relax a bit, the tension leaving his body, his grip on John's t-shirt less forceful. But then John's arm started to tingle and he lost all feeling in it and there was no way around it, he needed to move. So John shifted rather forcefully, jiggling Sherlock's head on his chest.

'Stop fidgeting!' Sherlock demanded.

'Oh, that's rich!' John huffed. 'I'm the one caressing you while my arms loses all feeling because _your_ heavy head is stopping the blood flow. Not to mention that _you_ are keeping me awake and now _you_ want me to stop fidgeting? Right!' Abruptly John sat up, ignoring Sherlock's indignant grunt when his head plopped onto the mattress.

'What are you doing?'

'I'm off to my bedr… to the spare room. I have locum work tomorrow and quite frankly I need a few hours of sleep! Good night!'

'John! Don't leave me here!'

Sherlock sat up, his face bearing the expression of a child being denied the second piece of chocolate, unable to believe that John would really leave him alone in their bed. The corners of his mouth turned down sullenly, but John ignored him and left the room. Sherlock gave the duvet a few angry little kicks before he slumped back onto the bed. Turning onto his side he curled up into a foetal position, the hope to ever find back to sleep gone with his John.

John was almost up the stairs to his old bedroom when he stopped and allowed his anger to slowly vaporise. Leaning against the cold wall he huffed. The hall window was leaking and an icy draft wafted towards him, tickling his toes and naked legs. The chill quickly became uncomfortable making him miss the blissful warmth Sherlock's body usually exuded. Despite what John had said in his irritation about ice cold toes it was in fact Sherlock, who was a veritable hothouse, who warmed John when they snuggled up in bed.

'Oh, bloody hell…' John hissed and turned on his heels.

**oo**

'Right,' John softly said, closing the bedroom door behind him, his irritation almost, but not entirely gone from his voice. With a bit more noise than strictly necessary John lifted the duvet and slipped back underneath the covers. Sherlock was facing away from him, lying on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. John snuggled up to him, spooning his warm body.

'Hmm, you're so warm.'

'Don't do that, John.' Sherlock mumbled and John's heart clenched when the hurt and sadness registered.

'Do what, love?'

'Leaving me alone.'

'I was angry because I really need some sleep …'

'Yes,' Sherlock interrupted him, his voice low and sleepy. 'I understand, I was insufferable, and I am sorry, but please don't ever do that again.'

John kissed Sherlock's bony shoulder and moved his hand soothingly up and down his arms, careful to exert just the right amount of gentle pressure, making sure that Sherlock would feel his touch this time.

'That's good.' Sherlock muttered after a while. 'Go on … don't stop…' His last words were almost inaudible and when John kissed his shoulder again and buried his nose in Sherlock's curls, he realised that he had drifted off to sleep.

'Sleep well, impatient git,' John whispered affectionately, well aware that it was only with Sherlock that he could use an insult as a term of endearment.

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**A/N**

Thank you very much for reading and it would be ever so lovely if you told me what you think of it …

I will more or less regularly add a chapter to these _tales_, and if you have any prompt you would like to see used, don't hesitate to tell me.

JJ xx


	2. John is away

**John is attending a conference in Manchester and Sherlock misses him a lot. Apart from that terrible longing he feels, he is of course his usual self: restless and bored and in need of distraction.**

**Okay, here comes one of the sexy chapters :)**

**Enjoy reading!**

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Sherlock sighed.

He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly - and sighed again.

It was so hard to stop thinking. So unbelievably hard to convince his buzzing brain to slow down a tad and ideally come to a standstill.

He needed to calm down and there was no way around it. Since this morning, after John had left, Sherlock had been working himself into a frenzy, a frenzy exacerbated by this terrible hollow feeling in his chest and by excessive boredom. What a delicious paradox that was, Sherlock thought and smirked. Well, delicious it might be as a theoretical problem, but in practice it was less appealing somehow. Life in general was less appealing - without John.

Of course, that was the crux of the problem. John was not here, not in 221B, wasn't even in London, because this morning he had left for a medical conference in Manchester, and he would not be back before Saturday - _Two more days - and nights_ - Sherlock thought and snorted mirthlessly.

So far the day had crawled by in a strange melee of moods, agonizingly slow hours interspersed with electric bouts, in short, a terrible morning giving way to an even more abhorrent afternoon. Obviously, Sherlock had kept himself occupied as best as he could, but somehow the emptiness of the flat had been oppressive and this restlessness bordering on hysteria had been like an army of ants marching beneath his skin.

Of course he was used to being alone in the flat, but it was different when he knew John would be home in the evening and would be there for him, take care of him, brew him a cup of tea, make him eat. A loud growling reminded Sherlock that all he had eaten today had been a piece of toast in the morning, together with John.

Maybe twenty minutes ago the situation had become unbearable, this hollow emptiness, this electric buzzing and he had retreated to their bedroom. From past experience he knew that being somewhere he felt comfortable helped him.

Stretching out on their bed helped.

Thinking about John definitely helped.

Holding something belonging to John might actually do the trick as Sherlock had found out one rainy afternoon when he had been similarly restless and John not there, but working overtime in the surgery. He had found peace then, snuggling up to John's pillow, his scent enveloping him, brushing over his skin like soft soothing fingers, enabling him to relax. His mind had stopped reeling and he had fallen asleep and woken refreshed two hours later, ready to make it through the rest of the day until John's return.

Today was different, though. Holding John's pillow, sniffing it, was not nearly enough and when this action did not show the desired effect Sherlock stuffed the pillow back under the covers. Next was John's striped jumper which he pinched from the linen basket and sat down with it on the bed, kneading the material, analysing its depth and complexity. All to no avail and he let it fall to the floor with a grunt.

His skin was fairly tingling with impatience now. Sherlock glanced at his twitching fingers and at his left leg jiggling nervously up and down as he was sitting on the edge of their bed. He huffed, almost at the end of his tether now, inexplicable to him why his body stubbornly ignored the orders of his mind. With an exasperated sigh he lay back and looked up to the ceiling.

Supine he felt a bit better, lighter somehow, and he exhaled, once, twice, the deliberate slow breathing pleasant. Stretching his back he fixed his gaze to the ceiling, his hands lying loosely at his side, calmer now. Even in the dim light of the small lamp he could make out the dozens of cracks in the old light maroon paint, and squinting he studied the depths and severity of those cracks. If he was honest it looked very shabby indeed. Narrowing his eyes he tried to gauge when the next coat of paint would be inevitable. Soon, he decided. It definitely had to be done very soon.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm down his breathing some more, and suddenly he saw John, standing on their wooden stepladder, dressed in his old, tatty jeans, full of holes, and his army t-shirt, the faded, dark green one, the one Sherlock had a soft spot for. He was holding a paint brush in his hands, sweat gleaming on his brow, and he was smiling down at him. The image was so vivid, seemed so real that Sherlock was sure to smell the paint.

His breath hitched in his throat and he opened his eyes, relishing the very vivid image of John, balancing on the ladder and stretching his arms to reach a particular spot on the ceiling. Of course, he was dabbing at it stubbornly, and his t-shirt was riding up and exposing his soft, but muscular belly. Concentrating hard, John's tongue slipped out like a lizard's, wetting his lips. Sherlock smiled and lightly placed his hand on his shirt, his fingers feathering out, playing with the fabric, absent-mindedly pulling it out from his trousers and then brushing his fingers over his warm skin. It felt good, this touch and he imagined John noticing and turning his attention entirely to him. He would be focusing on the slow movement, becoming aware of Sherlock's fingers gently stroking his own bare skin. The soft chuckle Sherlock believed to hear was so real as if John was in the room with him.

Heat collected in Sherlock's belly, moving from there to all his limbs, filling him pleasantly, excitingly and he increased the pressure of his fingers on his skin, adding his other hand and slowly moving up his chest, underneath his shirt, up and down, up and down, always softly brushing over his nipples until they were hard and straining against the fabric of his tight shirt. One by one he then undid the buttons and let his shirt fall open. The chill in the room caressed his naked chest and he moaned softly, arching his back

– _Oh, that's beautiful, Sherlock _–

And again he heard the soft chuckle and when Sherlock's hand moved down to the waistband of his trousers, resting there a moment as if waiting for permission to proceed he heard a sharp intake of breath and then the whispered words

– _Go on, show me _–

Sherlock unbuttoned his pants and pulled down the zipper, but then he stilled his hands, waiting, prolonging the moment, the delicious moments which still left you a choice, not that Sherlock wanted to have one right now, far from it. But since being with John he had always loved those moments which were still quite innocent, but already filled with a glorious promise. Slowly Sherlock let both hands slide over his hips, gliding over the smooth surface of his trousers and down the outside of his thighs. He let his hands lightly rest on his legs, enjoying the anticipation, the excitement, and he waited again, becoming utterly still.

– _Oh, what a tease you are, go on_ –

Sherlock grinned and then both hands moved towards the inside of his thighs, his thumbs moving in little, firm circles and then upwards to his groin. He was half hard and he cupped himself through the fabric of his trousers. The heat seemed to leave all his limbs and pool in his groin. Sherlock bit his lips and, softly first, he rubbed his hand up and down his length, quickly growing fully hard

– _Jesus, Sherlock… Look at you_ –

John's voice enveloped him, so soft and yet so arousing, and Sherlock's movements became less controlled, free and shameless. He opened his mouth and moaned, arching his back, giving himself entirely to the rhythm he established, moving his hand up and down, stroking his erection through the trousers

– _Go on, now, love… Come on … _–

Permission given, Sherlock could not hold back any longer and slipped his hand inside his pants, covering the velvety, hot skin. He imagined John watching him, growing hard and touching himself while he watched, and with delicious slow strokes he moved closer and closer until he came with John's name on his lips.

**ooo**

Sherlock must have fallen asleep, relaxed and spent. Desired sleep, but light sleep nonetheless, as the soft trilling noise of his mobile was enough to wake him. After a moment of awkward disorientation - he was lying on their bed, his shirt unbuttoned and his pants open – Sherlock relaxed and a slow smile spread over his face. Quickly sitting up he grabbed his phone from the night table.

'John!'

A soft chuckle answered his eager tone, 'I miss you too.'

John's voice sent memories of earlier pleasures down Sherlock's spine and he smirked. John was silent, his phone obviously pressed against his chest while he was walking. The background noise, maybe that of a pub or of the hotel bar, was muffled and when the noise grew even quieter he knew that John had stepped outside. With a content sigh he lay back on the bed.

'How's the conference going?'

'Predictable. Boring you might say. Met an old friend from uni.' John stopped talking to Sherlock and greeted someone who passed him. 'We might go for a drink later.'

'Handsome?'

'It's a woman!'

'Nevertheless.'

'Jealous?

'Should I be?'

'No need.'

'Then I'm not.'

'Excellent. How was your day?'

'Dull, boring, predictable. No new case has come up since this morning.'

'Greg wasn't in touch?'

'No. Neither did I get a reply to any of my texts. He must be quite pleased with himself. Working on his own, no need for my input.' Sherlock sighed theatrically and John chuckled. 'Ah, and Mrs Hudson is out, went to her sister's or best friend's … I can't remember which, I must have filtered. Which leaves the house awfully quiet with you not being here either.' Another deep sigh. 'I really don't know why you deemed it absolutely necessary to attend this boring conference.' John was about to interrupt, so he quickly added. 'So I was reduced to making plans for the renovation of our flat.'

'Renovation? Our flat? _Bloody hell_, the depth of your boredom must be unfathomable.'

'Clearly!' Sherlock fell quiet and intently studied the ceiling again - it definitely, definitely, was in need of paint. Something important occurred to him then, and he sat up. 'Have you still got your old army t-shirt? The dark green one.'

'Yes,' there was an astonished silence. 'Why?'

'I was thinking about starting with our bedroom, maybe a new coat of paint for the walls. It all looks quite shabby, especially the ceiling. Would off-white suit you?'

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**A/N**

Thank you so much for the huge response the first chapter got. I'm very grateful for all this positive feedback! I hope you like this one as well …

See you!

JJ xx


	3. Away on a Case

**A case takes Sherlock and John away from London, and so they need a place to stay overnight. Unfortunately all hotels are fully booked and at such short notice all they can find is a double room. **

**A double room with a double bed for Sherlock and John who are not a couple … yet**

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**Bedroom Tales – On a Case  
**

'Listen,' John dropped his voice and glanced at Sherlock, who seemed busy watching the comings and goings in the hotel lobby. 'What we need for tonight are two single rooms, or at the very least a twin.'

'I'm awfully sorry, sir, but our house is booked solid. We have three conventions in town, and as you unfortunately overlooked to notify us in advance …' Politeness hindered the receptionist to finish his sentence, the implication as to whom was to blame for this incommodity crystal clear nevertheless. 'I'm awfully sorry, sir.'

'Doctor, actually. It's Doctor John Watson.'

'Of course. I'm very sorry, Doctor Watson. Let me check again for you,' He made a show of checking the computer screen again, tapping a few keys, frowning, raising an impeccable eyebrow, ending the show on a not entirely honest 'Ah, there we are!' He smiled as if he was genuinely delighted and surprised by what the screen had revealed to him. 'Aren't you a lucky man! There has been a last minute cancellation.'

'There has?'

'Yes, indeed! It's a rather lovely double room on the second floor.'

'Listen!' John sounded peeved, the anger rising and already painting a thunderous red on his cheeks. 'I think I've made myself _quite_ clear. We need _two_ rooms!'

'It's a very modern room, beautifully decorated.' The receptionist replied, unfazed by John's threatening tone. 'One of our premium rooms in fact. I'm sure it's going to meet your standards, Doctor Watson. Let me tell you an interesting detail: This particular room has been recently featured in an international interior magazine.' He leaned closer as if about to share a saucy detail. 'It even has a …'

'Fascinating!' Sherlock rudely interrupted the receptionist's confession. 'I'm sure, it will be perfectly suitable.' Sherlock lightly touched John's shoulder, nonchalantly ignoring the way John's body stiffened in response and the indignant pout on the receptionist's pudgy face. 'If you could hand us the key cards? We are rather exhausted and need some rest.' Sherlock smiled at the receptionist and neither his icy smile nor his words left any room for contradiction.

'Of course,' the man looked a bit flustered, but was professional enough to regain his composure in no time. 'If you could sign here, please?'

Sherlock signed the form with flourish, grabbed the two key cards and strode to the lift, leaving John no choice but to follow.

**ooo**

'He was right,' Sherlock exclaimed as he entered the room, immediately personalising it by leaving a trail of clothes on the floor from the door to the bed, first the great coat, followed by his blue scarf, then the suit jacket and even his shoes. With an appraising glance he plopped down onto the double bed. 'It's rather nice!'

John looked at him, incredulous, his mouth pinched - This was not good, this was unexpected, this was not _at all_ what he wanted - He let their holdall fall to the floor and turned around to close the door with a bit more care than was strictly necessary. Unsure how to proceed John remained standing close to the door whereas Sherlock clasped his hands behind his head and fixed his gaze on him.

All that could be heard was the faint but steady noise drifting up from the busy main street passing the hotel. Inside the room the silence was thickening as neither of them said a word, both of them merely staring at each other. John knew that he would inevitably lose such a staring contest and so he admitted defeat and was the first to glance away. He cleared his throat.

'Well?'

'Well what?'

'How are we …' John waved a hand vaguely indicating the room, the bed.

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow and made a show to look around the room, taking in the bed, the wardrobe, the small writing desk and the sofa with a chair and a low coffee table, and - his eyebrows travelling just that bit higher - the bathroom with its transparent glass walls tucked away in a corner of the largish room.

'Interesting,' he said drily, trying his utmost to hide a smirk.

John followed his gaze and gasped - _How on earth! A see-through bathroom!_ - He grimaced, and a smile, defying his inner turmoil, crept over his face. An angry, a dangerous smile. A smile which hid the fact that all he wanted right now was the earth to open up and to swallow him whole, or, alternatively, punch the receptionist on the nose. Instead he dropped his gaze, unable to face Sherlock. How was he supposed to deal with this? _Jesus_ - How was he to go … to the loo? How was he supposed to take a shower in a bloody _see-through – slash - see everything_ bathroom?

'What is _this_?' he spat out eventually, pointing an accusing finger at the offending nothingness.

Sherlock sat up, leaning on his elbows, his face impassive. 'Problem?'

'I would say so, yes! I am not going to pee in there with you having a full view of my … you know … and what about taking a shower? It's all open!'

'Yes!' Sherlock conceded and lay back on the bed, unable now to wipe the smirk off his face. His eyes followed John who went to inspect the bathroom, stepping inside the cubicle, obviously looking for a curtain, however flimsy, shutters, anything to protect his modesty.

'John, rest assured, you're entirely safe. I'm neither going to ogle nor molest you.' It was intended as a casual remark, but it came out rather cutting.

John had finished his inspection and turned around. 'This is awful! Don't tell me you think this is acceptable?'

Sherlock merely shrugged.

'Bloody great!' John huffed. 'And where am I going to sleep?'

'I don't understand. You are going to sleep in the bed of course. With me.'

'I won't … I can't.'

'You _can't_?'

John turned away, trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

'I mean, I can't because I need a lot of space, I toss and turn. I would kick you … I think it's better I slept on the floor.' John nodded, once, twice, as if he needed all the confirmation he could get.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but chose not to comment. A fact which was more disturbing for John than any snarky comment could have been.

'What?' He snapped.

'Nothing. Obviously it's impossible to share a bed if you toss and turn that much … I completely agree.'

'Right.'

John grimaced again and flexed his left hand a few times as if to get rid of pain, and suddenly Sherlock understood. With one glance he took in the distress plainly written all over John's face and clearly expressed in his hand and hunched shoulders and his heart clenched. This was not at all what he had wanted. It was painful to witness John's unease and so he looked away. Moving to the edge of the bed he spoke, more to himself, all the while avoiding John's gaze.

'I guess I should check on our suspect before we turn in.' Sherlock got up and slipped his shoes back on. 'Don't wait up for me John. Take the bed, by all means. I probably won't sleep much anyway.' Sherlock walked to the door, grabbing his clothes from the floor on the way. Without looking at John, he quickly got dressed again and opened the door. And without another word he was gone.

**ooo**

'Great! This is bloody great!'

John slumped down on the rumpled bed and sighed. 'Get a grip, Watson,' he muttered and tried to wipe the awkwardness from his face. He scoffed mirthlessly. Jesus, he'd really shown his cards, hadn't he? Had made quite a scene, unnecessarily and embarrassingly so. Because of a double room! He was a grown man for God's sakes! Admittedly, though, he was also a coward when it came to certain matters. Matters regarding a certain flatmate. That was his problem though, and nobody else's and besides, it was barely Sherlock's fault that all single rooms had been booked.

He exhaled and looked up, narrowing his eyes at the offending bathroom, huffing when the reality of this ingenious monstrosity hit him yet again: a see-through bathroom! Who had devised such monstrosity? Who on earth could believe that people actually would feel comfortable with this? With everything on display, no secrets anymore what with everyody else in the room being able to inspect all bits and pieces.

John got up and shrugged out of his jumper, and then quickly got rid of the rest of his clothes. Now that he was alone he wanted to make the best of Sherlock's absence and use this abomination of a comfy bathroom to the fullest. After arranging some fluffy towels on the floor next to the tub, he turned the water on. He found that the lights could be dimmed, which he rather liked, and to top it off he made sure to generously add the free bubble bath to the steaming hot water.

John was soon relaxing in the bath, forgetting his qualms and when he slowly moved his hands and legs he enjoyed the slight resistance of the water and the tender caress of the bubbly foam. The pleasant warmth of the perfumed water dissolved his worries and the awkwardness slowly seeped away, leaving John relaxed and somewhat expectant.

Maybe this was it, maybe this was the opportunity they both had been dancing around for weeks. The tension between them had almost been palpable, all those furtive glances and yearning looks, all those little touches and knowing smiles. Maybe things would come to a head tonight. Maybe this was the start of something new and exciting and overwhelming.

Maybe?

What he could impossibly anticipate was how Sherlock would react. Sherlock who did every single thing differently than the ordinary person. Maybe he had read him wrong, had read too much into too little? Or maybe he himself would chicken out?

John closed his eyes and sighed. The water was tender and hot and he relished the caress of the water on his body, and then it wasn't the water but Sherlock's fingers roaming over his skin and a shudder ran down his spine and heat pooled in his groin. John slightly arched his back and closed his eyes.

Maybe this was it.

**ooo**

Sherlock unlocked the door with his keycard, careful not to make any noise, and closed it carefully after he had slipped inside. The room was not entirely dark as John had left the light next to the bed on for him. It cast a golden glow and a warm hand gripped Sherlock's heart. How considerate of him, how caring.

He slowly undressed, his gaze never leaving John who was sleeping on his back, his face peaceful and relaxed, his mouth slightly open. A light snore made Sherlock smile. It was strange, wasn't it, what effect those domestic and ordinary sounds had on him. He, who had never in his life shared a substantial part of his time with another human being. Until John that was.

Sherlock stepped out of his trousers and let them fall to the floor. Only in his black briefs he opened the glass door to the bath cubicle. He pulled down his briefs and entered the shower. The hot water cascading down his chest and legs felt extraordinarily good, and not only did it wash away the dirt of the chase, but it also alleviated the disappointment that Jamie Fraser, the imposter they had been chasing all day had yet again managed to elude them. But Sherlock was not disheartened and confident to solve this case soon.

He turned around to catch a glimpse of John through the steamed-up glass walls and his thoughts drifted away from the case. Seeing John's outline made his skin tingle and a coolness prickled his back. He closed his eyes for a moment to be able to concentrate on the tasks at hand, showering, washing his hair and carefully towelling dry, almost doing so on autopilot. Those mundane tasks helped him keep the nervousness at bay, this restless buzzing that filled his mind and body whenver he was around John.

Naked he walked into bedroom, rummaging through their holdall for a fresh pair of pants, and when he had put them on and turned around he found John awake and unashamedly watching him. Unfazed, all nervousness gone, Sherlock gestured to the bed.

'May I?'

John did not reply, but lifted the duvet to invite him in. Sherlock smiled and climbed into the bed, careful to keep a distance to John, aware that he must be way out of his comfort zone already.

'Did you …' John cleared his throat. 'Did you find anything interesting?'

'Not much.

'Right.'

They fell silent, the unfamiliar bedroom, the unfamiliar closeness stunning them both. The short interlude of silence stretched, became longer, unnatural and awkward as neither of them wanted to be the first to say something wrong. Sherlock shuffled a bit on the bed, trying to get more comfortable. He needed to know.

'What made you change your mind?'

'I don't know. It just seemed right when you asked,' John shrugged, a gesture lost to the dim light in the room.

'I'm glad,' Sherlock softly said and turned on his side to face John, still careful not to invade his personal space more than necessary.

'Me too,' John conceded and nodded, and this time the gesture was not lost, and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat when John's beautiful profile sharpened in the light and his heart went out to him. He bit his lips, preventing himself from blurting out some remark which would inevitably destroy everything. Instead he made a silent vow: He would gladly give up being Mr Punchline for the next weeks if it only meant he was allowed to be close to John. He would stop being an obnoxious arsehole, give up the snarky comments – not forever, but at least for a while - let's be honest, he was in love, not an idiot and most of all he was realistic. But yes, he was prepared to be a better man, if it meant that he had more moments like this with John.

'You know what, Sherlock,' John softly said, his voice tender, but hesitant. 'I like being with you … close, like this.' He paused before he added. 'It feels right.'

Sherlock stilled and remained silent, unsure whether to speak and risk breaking the spell. John misinterpreted his silence and turned to him, searching his face for signs of rebuttal. But what he saw was undisguised tenderness, a raw and open need that he had never seen in Sherlock before.

On impulse John leaned forward and lightly kissed Sherlock's lips, softly, more a question than a statement. And like in those soppy Hollywood films the world actually stopped turning for a moment, only to start spinning again when the soft pressure of Sherlock's lips kissing John back provided the answer he had hoped for. It was a mere brushing of soft lips on soft lips, tender and sweet, and over all too soon. But Sherlock craved connection and so leaned his forehead against John's.

'Did you watch me?' he whispered. 'Just now, in the shower?'

John nodded and shifted a bit to get closer. 'I know I shouldn't have after all the bellyache I gave you, but yes, I did.' He kissed Sherlock again. 'You're beautiful,' he whispered against his lips, 'So beautiful.'

'So are you.' Sherlock replied without second thought.

And it was true. To Sherlock John was the most beautiful human being he had ever had the fortune to encounter. John was just as perfect when he was grumpy and angry as when he praised Sherlock and stood by him despite his social awkwardness. And for God's sakes, he was so handsome and Sherlock had repeatedly fought the urge to wrap him in his coat so that nobody else could see him, talk to him, or be interested in him. He wanted John all to himself. Now, and as long as John wanted him.

Sherlock sighed, happy and elated, and his guard slipped a bit. 'I'm glad all the hard work and the twenty quid paid off.'

'Hm?' John murmured sleepily and Sherlock immediately regretted the blurted out remark, cursed himself that he had not been thinking, and idiotically had broken his vow from only a minute ago. But be that as it may. He might have been idiotic and careless, but he was no coward.

'You know, the twenty quid I slipped the receptionist.'

'Hang on!' John opened his eyes and moved away a bit, the better to see Sherlock's face. 'What are you talking about?'

'See-through bathroom? Only this particular room left?' Sherlock smirked. 'Coincidences rarely happen, John. Finding the perfect hotel with the perfect room was quite a feat, especially on such short notice. Thank you, Mr Fraser for choosing Manchester, one of the few cities with fancy hotels featuring see-through bathrooms!'

'Oh, you bloody bastard!'

'Quite right,' Sherlock conceded and before John could elaborate, he pulled him close again and kissed him, passionately and demanding this time, leaving John no room for protest at all.

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**A/N**

See-through bathrooms? Do such follies really exist? Indeed they do!

I hope you like this fluffy chapter, set right at the beginning of their relationship (even if it is only yet another variation of how everything started :)

Thank you very much for your positive feedback, please keep it up!

JJ xx


	4. Away on a case - Part 2

**I thought it would be nice to see what the boys are up to, at night, in their hotel room, with the strange see-through bathroom ... So, here it is: A little sequel.**

**Enjoy reading :)**

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**Bedroom Tales – Away on a case and in a hotel room – Part II**

The rain was tapping softly against the window pane. It was a steady, a soothing rhythm, and Sherlock turned his head towards it. His eyelids fluttered nervously and he exhaled slowly, trying to master the flood of sensations washing over him. Something unknown, but warm and heavy was blooming inside his chest, and he allowed it to take residence there. He hoped it would help fill the void inside him, a void he had been painfully aware of since John had entered his life and had made him more and more aware of his shortcomings.

A delicate flick of tongue and Sherlock sharply sucked in his breath, both hands fisting the sheets when he arched his back, letting his legs fall open even wider. His hips moved on their own accord it seemed, slowly, sensually, obeying another one's rhythm, obeying John.

Again the sound of the rain and the wind, which was forcefully picking up speed and whipping the droplets against the cold glass, pierced the fog of arousal and sensation. He became aware of his own moans and gasps and little grunts, of the heat radiating off his body. His hands sought John's hair, twisting his fingers through the soft strands, pushing and pulling, undecided, desperately wishing him to stay where he was and longing for those lips on his own at the same time.

Heat, desire, John's touches, his kisses, his hands and lips all over him. It was so much, so much, and all at once - so much data he would have to defragment and file away later. And it was so much more than he could ever have hoped for. A shiver ran over Sherlock's skin and he arched his back even more, offering himself to John.

John looked up, registering every tiny reaction, every new expression on Sherlock's face, and what he saw made him intensify his touch. His hands, locked around Sherlock's bony hips, loosened their grip and his fingers trailed over the swell of his backside, firmly, reverently, moving on, travelling over his hips, his abdomen and then up and down the inside of his thighs. His lips, wrapped around Sherlock, were sucking, kissing and licking, eliciting the most wonderful reactions. His hands, his mouth and lips and tongue were taking Sherlock apart, shattering him to pieces only to pick them up, one by one, and to put him back together lovingly and with infinite care.

'John,' Sherlock gasped and his fingers relinquished all gentleness when he edged closer to losing control, his touch rougher and much more demanding. John obeyed his unspoken wish and sped up his movement, feeling Sherlock's desire mounting. Watching Sherlock as he came undone underneath his touch was overwhelming and John moved against the mattress, rutting, the soft linen providing enough friction for him in his overexcited state, just enough.

His eyes never left Sherlock's face, taking in the flushed cheeks and the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the open mouth, the helpless panting and the tip of his tongue against his teeth, the almost incomprehensible words spilling from his mouth. His hands moved to Sherlock's groin, and soon the gasps, the words and movements were becoming less coherent, more erratic, as his arousal was mounting more and more and finally cresting with a muffled cry.

**ooo**

John rested his head on Sherlock's thigh, breathing in the heady scent of their lovemaking. Sherlock's chest was flushed and heaving in the aftermath of his orgasm. He looked utterly spent, his legs splayed, his arms lying limply at his side and his head turned sideways. With his eyes closed and mouth slightly open he looked young and delicious and sinful.

Slowly breathing through his mouth John listened to the blood rushing through his veins and whooshing in his ears, feeling the pure life pulsating within him. He felt it entering his heart, claiming its rightful place where for such a long time there had been nothing, nothing at all. Joy sometimes can be close to pain and John felt that the pure happiness of this moment had a raw edge to it, but one that he welcomed, one that he could cherish. Slowly his heart calmed down and his body followed suit, adapting to the peacefulness of this moment.

For a while nothing else than the sound of their breathing and the faint sounds of the night in a foreign city filled the room, and with the silence a warm glow settled over John, slowly seeping into every fibre of his being. Startled he realised that right now he was as close to happiness as probably never before.

'Can you hear the rain?' Sherlock softly asked, piercing the silence. 'And the wind?'

'Yes.'

'I never liked storms,' Sherlock confided. He was still lying motionless, and his voice, drifting through the almost darkness of the room, was strangely unreal. 'Mycroft used to tell me it was the east wind coming - A storm - there to pluck the unworthy of the earth. Which was usually me.'

John chuckled and caressed Sherlock's thigh, tracing little circles with his fingers.

'I always wondered what kind of brother Mycroft was for you.' John said and placed a kiss on the smooth skin. 'Don't take this the wrong way, but I think he must have been a rubbish big brother.'

John sat up, loath to break the peaceful mood of the moment, and grabbed a box of tissues from the night table to wipe his mouth and then both of them roughly clean.

'Mostly,' Sherlock conceded and gave John a sweet and lazy smile. 'But even he had his good moments.'

'Hard to believe.'

'Hm,' Sherlock grunted, unwilling to pursue this train of thought.

John grabbed the duvet which had become a tangled mass at the foot of the bed and draped it over both of them before he carefully placed his head on Sherlock's chest, wishing for the bliss of the past half hour to linger.

'Your heart … it's still racing.'

'It's not used to such exertion anymore.'

'Oh, it will get the hang of it soon.'

'Clearly.

John brushed his cheek over Sherlock's hot skin, the sparse dark chest hair tickling his cheeks. It had been a while for John to share such intimacy and he was sure the same could be said for Sherlock. Of course, he had never asked, but he was convinced that Sherlock must have experienced sex and intimacy before, after all he was a man in his thirties.

And what if he hadn't?

Well, what was it to John? - Nothing, it was irrelevant.

John draped his body over Sherlock, snuggling even closer. Strangely, in past relationships he had never been a cuddler, had always fled the emotionally stifling stickiness of after-sex cuddles, the hollowness that followed a high, the inevitable questions, the dissection and destruction of what might have been otherwise an enjoyable moment.

'Your'e broooooding,' Sherlock drawled, mocking him. 'Why?'

'I'm just happy, that's all.' John shrugged, surprising himself, spilling the beans without necessity, his words and actions heroically contradicting his morose thoughts without a trace of hesitation. He huffed and then craned his head to look at Sherlock. 'Are you?'

'Happiness is a concept purely based on past experiences, childhood memories, conventions and ideals society deems appropriate and desirable.'

'Right,' John grinned, but he was not put off so easily. 'But are you happy?'

'Yes,' Sherlock kissed him on the tip of his nose. 'Yes, I am actually.'

John straightened his back to kiss him properly, exploring the plush lips and the mouth, and he felt desire stirring yet again.

'_Jesus_, Sherlock,' He chuckled against his lips, moving a bit to hide his arousal. 'It seems my body is ready to go again…'

'Mm,' Sherlock sounded sceptical. 'Quite amazing for a man your age.'

'Oi! Watch it!'

'Don't take it like that.' Sherlock weaved his fingers through John's hair and John found that he could take the snarky remark in exchange for this tender gesture. 'The average refractory period for a man your age is thirty-eight minutes. So you're doing well.' John grunted in reply and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of those deft fingers carding through his hair. 'Actually, I'm flattered that your body reacts like that to me, but maybe we should take a bath first. Exploit the luxuries of this extraordinary bathroom?'

'I'd like that.'

John pecked Sherlock's chest and with a grunt he sat up, covering his midsection with the duvet. Ruffling his hand through his hair as if following the trail Sherlock's fingers had left, he looked back over his shoulder and saw a slow smile spreading over Sherlock's face, a real, a warm smile. Sherlock lifted his hand and ran his fingers lightly down John's back, making him shiver and straighten under the tender touch.

John answered his smile and narrowed his eyes. How changed Sherlock looked. There was none of his usual haughty arrogance left, none of his detachment. He was relaxed, his limbs loose and his movements fluid. His skin, usually as pale as moonlight, was flushed, mottled and pinkish in places, his dark curls dishevelled and wild, but the one thing which made him more beautiful than ever was the open and vulnerable expression on his face.

I love him, John thought and quickly glanced away. God help me, I love him.

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**A/N**

That was it, the little sequel to the see-through bathroom chapter. I really hope you liked it!

I want to thank you for the fantastic feedback those ficlets have been getting so far. You really, really made/make my day :)

There's more to come … See you soon!

JJ xx


	5. A Bedroom of Horrors

**I know I hinted at sadness for this chapter, but before we cross that bridge have a bit more fluff …**

**Enjoy reading!**

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**A Bedroom of Horrors**

The unfortunate incident at the 'Badger Head Inn' in Exeter could not have not been foreseen.

Obviously Sherlock blamed John who, admittedly, had been a trifle inattentive and therefore let the opportunity slip to bring this case to a quick completion. John, on the other hand, was convinced that it had been entirely Sherlock's fault, after all he had been busy _elsewhere_, where exactly he had not yet divulged, when John had needed him.

So Sherlock was silent and brooding, faraway in his thoughts, possibly trying to think of alternatives to catch the blackmailer they had hoped to stop this afternoon. If his current state of mind was anything to go by this alternative very likely included John acting as bait. John shuddered at the thought, but then he almost imperceptibly shook his head no, the man they were after had seen them together at the inn today, so this was out of the question.

John turned his attention away from Sherlock, whose prolonged silence troubled him only slightly. His manners prevailed and therefore he tried to concentrate on the things at hand, their client. Well, at least one of them should, John thought, slightly irritated now, and cleared his throat. Time to fully focus on the conversation again.

They were in the midst of a light supper Mrs Corman, their client, had graciously and generously prepared at her home. They were in the living room, seated around a low table laden with plates of sandwiches, little cakes and bowls of soup. John was not very hungry, but polite enough to eat, whereas Sherlock had outright declined any food.

Last Monday the three of them had met for the first time when Mrs Corman had come to Baker Street, her last resort, as she had confided fairly quickly. A sobbing mess she had been, desperate because nobody, including the police whom she declared useless, had been able to help her thus far, and so the famous London detective Sherlock Holmes was her last and only remaining hope.

The case she had presented had been interesting and Sherlock immediately intrigued by it. Five weeks ago Mrs Corman had been contacted and then increasingly pressured by a blackmailer threatening to expose her dead husband's dirty secrets. She tearfully assured that, in the worst case, this exposure could result in her losing everything she owned: A nice cottage just outside Exeter and a flourishing tearoom in town. As usual the police had been frightfully incompetent as she had put it, and Sherlock, who especially abhorred this species of criminals, frankly loathed their habit of exploiting other people's secrets, had been sympathetic and had gracefully accepted. Thus it had been arranged that Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson would come to Exeter to confront and stop Mrs Corman's tormentor.

Well, that had been the plan at least, a plan which had been willfully destroyed by John, if you asked Sherlock and made impossible by Sherlock, if you leaned towards John's side. Whatever side you were inclined to choose, the result was the same: It resulted in them having to stay for another day - and night.

'I _must_ insist you take the spare room!'

'That's very generous of you, Mrs Corman, but we …'

'No _but_, Dr Watson! I'be damned if I let you gentlemen spend good money on a cold and dirty hotel room when I can offer you the comfort of my spare room.' She leaned forward confidentially. 'You never know what might happen in a hotel! Dr Watson, do you have any idea what scoundrels these hotel managers are? I know Exeter, have lived here all my life and I could tell you a tale or two!'

'I'm sure we'll …'

'No, no, _no_! You will be my guests. It's the least I can do and that's my last word! The spare room is on the first floor, ensuite, so you'll be very private.' She leaned back a bit and after an assessing look she added. 'I take it you do need only the _one_ bedroom?'

John cleared his throat. He put down the sandwich he had been holding and glanced at Sherlock. He was sitting right next to him, on a low chair, upholstered in the most hideous floral pattern in colourful chintz. Sherlock looked like an elegant painting against a flowery background, the way he was sitting there, completely still, his legs delicately crossed at the ankles and his long fingers steepled beneath his chin. He was staring into the crackling fire, going at full blast and giving the living room with its low ceiling an almost stifling atmosphere. Again John cleared his throat to rouse Sherlock from his thoughts, but Mrs Corman butted in.

'Not that I mind, Dr Watson. Not at all! But if you'd prefer there's a small room behind the scullery. Used to be the maid's room, not that I have one now. Awfully hard to find a decent help, you know.' She smiled at John, aiming for sympathy. 'Anyway, it's a nice little room, Dr Watson. No private bathroom for this one though, I'm afraid.'

John looked back at her and answered her smile, longing to put an end to this conversation. 'It's fine, Mrs Corman. We only need the one room. As long as there is a large enough bed …' John broke off and glanced away. He felt a heat rising in his face which had nothing to do with the high temperature in the crammed and over-decorated living room. Ignoring his slight embarrassment he glanced back at the old lady and smiled.

'Splendid!' Mrs Corman clasped her hands together and got up. 'Do help yourselves to more soup and sandwiches. I'll just pop upstairs and prepare your room!'

**ooo**

'I can_not_ stay here!'

'We've been through this. Three times! I don't know what to say anymore to be honest.'

'Look at that one over there. It's horrid, it's creepy. Look, I've got goosebumps all over my body!'

John sighed and dutifully looked at Sherlock who was sitting up in bed, wide awake and leaning against the wooden headboard. Right enough, his bare arms were covered in gooseflesh. John's eyes trailed along the lovely pale skin and then followed the direction Sherlock's accusing finger was pointing.

'I agree. It's not exactly pretty.'

'That must be the understatement of the century. It is nightmarish, like a medieval gargoyle. Just look at her eyes.'

'Yes, I can see why she is not aesthetically pleasing, but I would very much like to turn off the lights now and go to sleep.'

'Turn off the lights?'

'Hm.'

'John, we cannot turn off the lights. I strictly refuse! I can't sleep in this room with those horrific dolls around me. They are disquieting.'

'That's why I'd suggest sleeping in darkness. You'll find that the ensuing blackness quite handily shrouds things we don't want to see.'

'Sarcasm, John? Now? Can't you see that I am disturbed by this array of terrifying ugliness?'

John sighed and with a few angry shoves against his pillow he sat up, next to Sherlock.

'I grant you that they are horrific and I have never seen anything like them before. Not even in my grand aunt's house and she was an avid collector of stuffed animals. You should have seen her collection of owls. It was awe-inspiring, to say the least.'

'I bet it couldn't compare to those atrocities.' Sherlock drew up his legs and hugged them close to his chest. He placed his chin on his knees and glanced sideways at John. He looked like a petulant seven-year old and he sounded like one as well. John marveled at the fact that this man, now resembling an annoyed little boy, was the same person who had bewitched Mrs Corman with his suave poise and cool deductions. John chuckled when he thought back to the way she had fussed over them both, but especially over Sherlock who had grown quieter and quieter once she had shown them their bedroom.

'Not quite. I have to admit that those porcelain dolls really do take the biscuit.'

'How many do you think there are?'

John tilted his head to the side and looked around the room. Underneath the window, on top of the chest of drawers he counted ten porcelain dolls of various sizes. The biggest was a fairly plump baby doll, dressed in a white lacy dress, complete with bonnet. She was staring at John with big, blue and very dead eyes and John quickly averted his gaze.

'Thirty-nine dolls, John,' Sherlock interrupted his endeavour impatiently. 'Ten on the chest of drawers, fifteen on the two shelves, eight on the two wicker chairs and the remaining six scattered individually on the night tables, the top of the wardrobe, next to the door and three in the bathroom.'

Sherlock had spoken quickly, through gritted teeth and John turned towards him. Sherlock had started to jiggle his legs nervously and because of his posture his whole body began to tremble.

'Shh,' John soothed and wrapped his arm around Sherlock, who thankfully slumped against John's warm and sturdy body, still nervously trembling. 'Why don't you tell me about them?'

'Tell? What?' Sherlock seemed perplexed.

'Whatever you can. Deduce them for me.'

Sherlock sat up and looked at John. His face was impassive first, and then he slowly frowned. 'You mean?'

'Yes.'

Sherlock nodded and then scanned the room, letting his eyes slowly travel over the dolls. John noticed how he slightly flinched once or twice, but then he seemed to have found one which he deemed worthy to deduce. He snuggled against John's chest and began to speak, his low baritone pleasantly rumbling.

'Let's start with the doll in the frilly lilac silk dress, shall we? Antique, Georgian, a present from Mrs Corman's late husband. He bought it in London as a kind of reparation because he had been with a mistress. Possibly one of the secrets Mrs Fisher would rather keep hidden. She does not like this doll, see how she pushed it behind the others? It reminds her of sad hours, of hours waiting for her infidel husband, secretly wishing the plague upon him, but gracefully accepting the token of his shame when he came back to her.'

'That's … amazing! How can you...?'

Sherlock smiled against John's bare chest and kissed him. 'I observe, John. And I listen. Mrs Corman has talked about her husband's infidelity at great length today. About his little adventures, not here in Exeter, but preferably in London where the chance to meet an acquaintance would have been much smaller, about his lifelong addiction to burlesque dancers. Judging by the rest of the cottage it's easy to see why Mr Corman would think those dolls would be right up his wife's street. That she put them in the spare room, out of sight, only corroborates the assumption that these were guilty gifts from her husband. She accepted them, though she hated them and so, gradually, she assembled this creepy cabinet of horrors in the guest room.'

'That's brilliant, Sherlock.' John kissed the top of Sherlock's head, the smell of the day, the train, the inn, Mrs Corman's living room, still clinging to his hair. He cupped his chin and tilted Sherlock's face upwards. Soft lips met soft lips and Sherlock closed his eyes, savouring the moment.

'Hmm,' he hummed and kissed John backed, slowly, tenderly, taking his time. 'You know,' he murmured between lazy kisses. 'There's only one way to prevent me from having nightmares in this room.'

'Oh? What's that?'

'Distract me, John,' Sherlock mumbled, his eyelids fluttering closed again. 'Make slow and lazy love to me, take me apart, wear me out, so much so that my brain will have no capacity left to contemplate the horrors of those dolls.'

A shudder went down John's spine. Sherlock's low voice, uttering this plea - or was it a command? - was mesmerising. John slowly kissed a trail from Sherlock's forehead to the corners of his lips. 'I think I am capable of that,' he whispered.

'Good,' Sherlock opened his eyes and to John they seemed like a vortex, irresistibly drawing him closer, drawing him in, inviting him to drown. 'That's very good.'

* * *

**A/N**

Thank you so much, **eventhorizon451** for this lovely prompt. My muse was a bit dormant these past days, and so I asked for prompts and ideas on my tumblr. This is one of them, and eventually I will write a chapter for most of the prompts (or maybe even for all as they were so lovely). Thank you very much!

Thank you for reading and for all the wonderful feedback for this fic. Please keep it up!

JJ xx


	6. A Sad Memory

**A Sad Memory**

John sharply sucked in his breath. He recoiled as if he had been slapped, the object he had been holding slipping from his fingers and tumbling to the floor. His eyes fluttered closed when the wave of nausea hit him, broke and with agonising and disgusting accuracy licked at his skin before washing over him. Stumbling backwards his legs hit the bed and he sank to the floor in an untidy heap.

'Jesus -' he muttered. Covering his eyes, shielding them, John listened to his wildly hammering heart with something akin to awe. Exhaustion gripped him and he had no choice but to let it reign, his head drooping, his chin almost touching his chest, before he had regained enough strength to bring his knees up and hug them tightly, unconsciously making himself smaller, fairly curling into himself. Gently he started rocking, to and fro, slowly, ever so slowly, guiding himself towards a calmer state.

'Jesus,' he repeated, his voice weak, the words almost inaudible, as his heart resumed a slower pace. He felt drained and tired, and uncurling he let his legs glide out in front of him, his arms fall loosely to the side and his head tilt backwards, leaning against the foot of the bed.

Slowly he in- and exhaled a few times, careful to follow the relaxation techniques he knew by heart, sadly enough. In the aftermath of Sherlock's death these techniques had more often than not been the only thing that had prevented him from simply getting drunk to forget his bottomless grief, had prevented him from literally drowning his sorrow.

In and out, in and out, in and out - slowly, deliberately, steadily - and then John opened his eyes again to bravely confront what had caused this attack. Instinctively he knew that he could not do so without preparation or a detour of some kind, and so he tried to anchor his mind to something positive first. Taking a deep breath he let his eyes slowly travel from the floor up to the window along the wall and then to the top of the chest of drawers.

He weakly smiled when he took in the array of frames on top of the chest of drawers. He knew there were six of them, but from his vantage point on the floor he could only see three. One that showed a smugly smiling Sherlock in his armour, his detective outfit, complete with coat and the 'earhat', as he had arrogantly dubbed it, although they both knew that he secretly liked it. And a bit to the right there was a snapshot which showed Sherlock relaxed and with the hint of a suntan, tiny freckles gracing the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, not that John could see them from that distance, but he knew they were there. Next to this, in a modest silver frame, was a memento of John's army days, a portrait of John in his unform, a shot Sherlock particularly loved and had rescued from a box in John's wardrobe. John could not help but smile as the memories connected with the pictures were all happy and positive ones, and so he felt somewhat restored if not entirely ready. Slowly he bent forward to pick up the object that had so profoundly shocked him minutes ago.

John softly chuckled, but it was a mirthless sound, more expressing his bewilderment about his reaction to what was an inconspicuous object really than actual enjoyment. He cleared his throat and focused on what he was holding in his hands. It was blue, with a pattern of darker and slightly lighter stripes, and it was soft, very soft. But when John's fingers moved on he found patches of an entirely different consistence, stiff, hardened in places where congealed blood - Sherlock's blood - had dried.

Shakily inhaling he forced himself not to snatch his fingers away - For John was for the very first time touching the scarf Sherlock had worn the day he had jumped off the roof of St Barts.

He was touching the scarf the hospital staff had been more than reluctant to hand over to John after he had begged them, had screamed, had humiliated himself. They had drawn the line at the coat, though. They had refused to give it to him, had said it was beyond repair, not that he would have cared one tiny bit. No, they had wanted to spare him, scuttling around him, exuding their well-meant, but false consideration and he had hated them for it. And so he had railed and begged and ranted until they had at least given him the scarf - _his_ scarf - wrapped in a white hospital sheet and stuffed into a bag.

It had taken weeks and weeks before he had been able to unwrap it, only to stuff it in a box, and then the box somewhere in the back of a wardrobe or a chest of drawers, he could not remember where exactly. Memories surfaced now, though, pale, but distinct memories, how he had sometimes caressed this box, had almost opened it, but then had stuffed it somewhere where he would not see it, would not accidently stumble across it. Cowardly behaviour, really. Nevertheless he had been acutely aware of its existence for a very long while, but had never been quite ready to actually take the scarf out and touch it. And gradually he had forgotten that it was there - Until now.

Why he had taken that box out today of all days, without even remembering what it contained, was a mystery to John. Why he had opened it and touched the scarf, inexplicable. But now that he had crossed that boundary there was no way back it seemed.

Tenderly he moved his fingers over the scarf, marvelling at the colour and the texture, how different it felt to what he remembered, how soft it was and how strange the dark, dried blood felt. Tears prickled behind his eyes and he choked back a sob. An urge to give in to the sadness overcame him, one he had not felt for a while and he simply let go, let the tears roll down his cheeks, pressing the scarf against his mouth to stifle the sobs.

**ooo**

'John?'

A door clapped, soon followed by the steps of someone quickly crossing the kitchen and then the bedroom door was opened.

'John?'

'What's wrong, John? What happened?'

John looked up and more tears came, one after the other, rolling down his cheeks. Sherlock scanned the room and taking in the scarf in John's hands and his tear-stained face, he quickly closed the bedroom door and lowered himself onto the floor next to him.

'John,' he whispered and wrapped his arms around him, cradling him in his arms. 'Why did you do that?'

'I don't know,' John said, his voice muffled with tears. 'I was cleaning out the drawers, getting the stuff ready for Oxfam, you know and I just ...' he motioned to the box, to the scarf in his hands. 'I never ...' he broke off and drew a shaky breath. 'I had never looked at it. Not until today.'

'I see,' Sherlock kissed the top of John's head and sat down next to him, leaning against the foot of the bed. 'I see,' he repeated, his voice shaky, and John looked at him. Despite his use of the universal formula of conveying understanding Sherlock seemed at a loss. John blinked away his tears and waited.

'I'm sorry.' Sherlock's voice was flat when he eventually spoke, the effort not to cry so evident that John bit his lips. 'I'm sorry ... so very sorry, John.'

'I know.'

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and intertwined their fingers. A weak smile danced across his face and John answered it, willing it to grow bolder, willing it to stay, for the sake of both of them. John had long realised what Sherlock's jump and the aftermath had meant for both of them. Had realised that both of them had suffered and that both of them had changed. Sherlock looked at John and nodded and lifting John's hand to his lips he gently kissed his palm.

'Let me show you something.' Sherlock did not let go of John's hand which made the following manoeuvre a trifle awkward, but he managed to retrieve his purse from his suit jacket nonetheless. He opened it and took out a small, round and dark object. He held it up, rolling it between thumb and index finger.

'A button,' John said, frowning.

'Your button.'

'What?'

'I took it from your black jacket when we were in the lab - that afternoon. I cut it off and kept it with me ever since. It was all I could take from you, a memento.'

'I never noticed ... but then I wouldn't have, would I?' John's voice grew agitated again. 'I was busy just trying to keep functioning. Coming back here bloody killed me, did I tell you that? All your books, your chair, our bed, your clothes ...' John's voice broke again and Sherlock bit his lips.

'Sorry, John,' Sherlock delivered this apology as he had done so many times before in the past weeks since his return. 'Please believe me, I'm sorry for all the grief that I caused you.' He whispered those words, always those words, as if he needed to make his remorse clear once more, and John heard it, but wasn't ready yet to tell him it was enough. Instead he cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the sadness.

'Can you believe that I'd completely forgotten that I had this box with your scarf...' John's voice trailed off and his fingers absent-mindedly stroked the soft fabric again.

'Clearly. It's a perfectly normal reaction. You needed to forget, so your brain repressed this information. This explains why you could stumble upon it today without recognising it.'

'Thanks,' John said with a scoff. 'I know that much myself.'

'Don't be like that, John. I merey clarified.'

'I know,' John said tiredly, leaning aganist Sherlock. 'I know.' His glance fell on the button which Sherlock was still holding between thumb and index finger.

'Why a button?'

'Hm?'

'Why did you take one of my buttons and not a photo or a shirt or... I don't know.'

'I took a button because it was small enough to take everywhere with me, meaningful enough to connect me to you and not significant enough for any of my opponents to confiscate it. It was my anchor, my lifeline, it kept me sane.' Sherlock said and scoffed. After a moment he repeated, much quieter. 'It kept me sane.'

'I don't know what to say.'

Sherlock shrugged, 'Sentiment.' John huffed when he heard the familiar word, always used to conveninetly cover Sherlock's unwillingness to delve into his own emotions, but this time he was not finished yet. 'Love, John.'

John looked at him then and their eyes locked for a moment.

'Yes.' John said and turned their hands to place a kiss on the back of Sherlock's hand. 'Love, Sherlock.'

* * *

**A/N**

Thank you so much, **MapleLeafCameo**, for this wonderful prompt :)

Sorry for the delay, but real life was quite demanding! Thank you for all your support, my lovelies. I really appreciate you taking the time to read these ficlets and I absolutely love your feedback :)

JJ xx

P.S.: I might continue the Bedroom of Horrors chapter and write about John's attempt to distract Sherlock... but only if anyone's interested? :)

P.P.S-: I'm aware that the name of the hospital is spelt differently, but this site won't let me spell it correctly as they seem to think I want to include a link :(


	7. A Bedroom of Horrors - Part II

**Bedroom of Horrors - Part II**

John exhaled and his body slowed down - the once pronounced and determined movements became less so, slower, slow, and then infinitely slow until his body stilled completely. Time seemed to grind to a halt and the air in the room grew heavy with want and restraint. The muscles in the back of his thighs, backside and lower back tensed, taut like bowstrings with the effort of keeping still. He felt them trembling.

Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction, slits of silvery blue and white and then his lips parted and his tongue slipped out, wetting his lips, moving from one corner of his mouth to the other. It was a simple but feral gesture, and all the more enticing and obscene for it. He did not say a word, but lifted his hips, rolled them, attempting to make John move once more.

John shook his head and bent down to kiss Sherlock's chest, a fine sheen of sweat coating the pale skin. Kiss after kiss after kiss and when John felt Sherlock growing more restless he covered his mouth with one hand to stifle any possible protest. This was John's gig, and he was the one to set the pace. Sherlock's eyes widened and a growl started to build deep inside his chest, a low rumble, waiting to break free.

'Shh,' John reprimanded him, continuing to kiss his way up his chest, along the slender neck to his enticing lips. Tentatively he lifted his hand, ready to cover Sherlock's mouth immediately should he protest. John lifted one eyebrow quesitoningly and waited for Sherlock to nod his consent.

'Good,' John whispered before he kissed Sherlock's lips, his body still not resuming any pronounced movement, still remaining motionless. Their kisses grew heated quickly, passionate, fuelled by desire and a great amount of impatience on Sherlock's part and freed from the restraint of John's hand he moaned unashamedly into his mouth, pouring all his want into it. Despite having been told not to, he moved, wrapping his long legs around John and drawing him closer, deeper inside himself. John gasped and broke off the kiss.

'Don't!' John warned and closed his eyes, he needed to calm down or he would give in to the urge to continue those delicious motions, oh yes, he would. Instead he used his hands to pin Sherlock's hands down either side of his head and set ut to make up for this with kisses and bites and licks.

'More...' Sherlock growled into his mouth. 'More!'

'Don't speak!' John hissed and closed his mouth with more kisses robbing Sherlock of any chance to complain. In frustration he arched his eyebrows and John almost laughed, but then he gave in and started moving, slowly, ever so slowly. When he felt Sherlock's impatience bubble up incontrollably once more, he took mercy and moved faster and more determined, thrusting deeper and Sherlock's mouth fell open in a perfect rund O and he arched his back in the most arousing way. John pressed his lips on Sherlock's, incapable of anything else than messy kisses now. He kept Sherlock's hands pinned to either side of his head and then his thrusts became faster and faster until he finished with a muffled cry.

Panting John let his head sink onto Sherlock's chest, welcomed by a wildly hammering heart. Only a moment of respite, though, as he felt that he had tested Sherlock's patience enough for one night, and then he sneaked a hand between them and made sure that Sherlock followed.

**ooo**

Silence - gentle, velvety silence - full of nothing, full of everything. It was blissful and it was theirs and it was this silence which invariably followed their lovemaking. Silence made of equal parts satisfaction and happiness, exhaustion and tiredness, loss and gain.

John relished the fact that they could be this silent together, and he knew that Sherlock, who loved to talk and to disagree and to dissect, was not averse to this tiny ritual either. Experiencing Sherlock in such a mood was as delicious as it was exclusive to John.

Fingers slowly extricating from warm, slender fingers, and then delicately turning onto his back, John let his gaze travel over the dim outlines of Mrs Corman's spare room filled to the brim with her porcelain dolls. Obviously, he could see what Sherlock disliked about them, even to him, who was rather indifferent to the intricacies of interior design, they were atrocious. John closed his eyes, trying to prolong this beautiful moment, but then he started fidgeting and with a sigh he reluctantly got up to go to the bathroom, a necessary, but not welcomed interruption of their silent bliss.

John made sure to be quick and when he washed his hands, raising his head to glance into the mirror, he noticed the smug expression on his face. Grinning he saluted his reflection. He dried his hands and turned of the light and then quickly slipped back into the bed, snuggling up to Sherlock, warm and still silent Sherlock.

'John,' Sherlock mumbled eventually, his eyes closed and his face relaxed. He sounded worn-out and satisfied and John mentally slapped himself on the back once more for being the one responsible for this state.

'Hm?'

'I almost managed to forget where we were when you made love to me.'

John adjusted his position on the bed, his burning muscles reminding him of the exertion of barely twenty minutes ago. '_Almos_t you say?'

'Yes.'

'Only almost?'

'Obviously.'

'It's not obvious to me! Why only almost?' John's voice took on a mocking tone. 'Wasn't I good enough?'

'Don't be silly, John. You were quite fantastic and my orgasm was very pleasant, and the moments of denial were a nice touch indeed.'

'But?'

'But when I opened my eyes again, they were still there!' Sherlock scoffed and when he spoke again he almost growled. 'Quite impossible to ignore the horrors of _those_ dolls.'

'Well, they did not dissolve into thin air in the meantime. A brilliant mind like yours should have been aware of that. To be honest, I was taking your demand to distract you and to make you forget those dolls not quite in the literal sense. Well, at least not entirely.'

'Oh, well, you're right.' Sherlock conceded rather gracefully. 'I was metaphorically speaking of course. I just thought that if there was anybody on earth who had the power to make this happen then it would be you.'

John blinked, 'Seriously Sherlock, that's the most romantic thing that's ever been said to me!'

'Really?' Sherlock's face lit up with one of his lopsided smile and he looked very content. 'That's ... good, I suppose!'

'It is, it definitly is. You are a romantic git...' John chuckled, and the content silence returned, but then he could not help but yawn mightily. 'Let's get some sleep. I'm absolutely knackered.'

'Right.'

John snuggled up to Sherlock's chest, listening to his heartbeat again - the calm, steady and strong dadumm, dadumm, dadumm - and he was happy.

He was tired, yes, knackered, as he had said and in this state between wakefulness and sleep his mind decided to dwell on something truly happy: Sherlock and the fact that he was his. These last days, weeks and months, these first months of their relationship had been outstanding indeed. Not that so much had changed in their compartment towards each other, apart from the sex of course, but he would not have expected how freeing it was to live openly what had gripped him the moment he had met Sherlock Holmes.

Love flooded John, filling him from head to toe, a pleasant prickling sensation which made him tingly all over. John's fingers lightly caressed Sherlock's skin and then his grip tightened and he gently kissed the pale, warm skin.

'I love you too, you know.'

'I know, Sherlock. Oh God, I know.'

* * *

**A/N**

Right, a short, but fluffy sequel ... I hope you liked reading it!

Thank you for all your lovely feedback, and see you soon!

JJ xx

P.S.: Chloe: if you want to follow me on tumblr: my URL is Junejuly15, the same as everywhere :)


	8. Soaking Wet

**Bedroom Tales - Soaking Wet**

'Take my coat.'

John looked up at Sherlock who was hovering close, his coat in his hands, held out to him. An offering.

'Thanks,' John nodded and quickly slipped out of his soaked jacket and into the warm and heavy woollen Great Coat. Despite the torrential rain they had run through to reach this shelter, the coat's woollen outside was barely wet and the lining was still holding some residue warmth from Sherlock's body.

'What about you?' John pressed out between chattering teeth. He stopped talking, not wanting to waste energy and tried to control the symptoms of his freezing body. He was wet to the skin as his cotton jacket and blue jeans had been a rather pitiful shell, soaking wet now, the trousers clinging to his legs and his jacket lying useless somewhere on the bale of straw next to him.

'I'm fine.' Sherlock answered confidently and from what John could see with the dim light falling in through the open barn door, he looked fairly dry. Obviously his coat had protected him well from the downpour which had surprised them. But the way he hugged his arms around himself spoke of something else entirely and John saw that he was shivering.

'You're not. You're shivering. Why did you give me your coat when you're cold yourself?'

Sherlock scoffed and turned away from John. He walked to the barn door and peered outside. 'It's still pelting down for God's sakes!' He remained where he was and leaning against the doorpost he peered into the rapidly falling night. As if he had no worry in the world, he crossed his feet at the ankles nonchalantly. 'I guess, we'll just have to wait until it clears.'

'And if it doesn't?'

'Then we'll have to stay here, obviously.' Sherlock spoke without looking at John, and the tension in his lean back told John that he was trying hard to keep from shivering. John snuffled and wrapped the coat around him. A faint whiff of smoke and the scent of wet wool wafted towards him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on getting warm again. He knew very well that it would be best to take off his wet shoes and socks at least and rub his feet dry with the straw, but he was loath to move and decided to give it another five minutes or so.

_God_, he was so sleepy after this hike through the bloody countryside - stupidly following a trail long gone cold if you asked John. Which Sherlock of course had not, thank you very much. John growled, as much in response to this not very friendly thought as a comment on their current situation.

'You probably should take off your wet trousers. And socks, and shoes,' Sherlock remarked and looked over his shoulder.

'I know,' John said, but made no move to do so.

'Rub them dry, with the straw.'

'Yes, yes, I am aware of that,' John snapped.

Again Sherlock said nothing and continued staring at the curtain of falling rain outside the barn.

'Could you please close the door, it's very cold,' John muttered and Sherlock turned to look at him, to peer at him attentively, before he closed the door, robbing the barn of yet another source of light, however dim.

'You really should get out of those wet clothes.'

'As a matter of fact so should you.' John said petulantly.

'Hm,' Sherlock turned his back on John, peering through the cracks in the wooden boards as if he wanted to stop the pouring rain by the force of his steely gaze. 'I really don't see why you are so stubborn, John. You are a doctor, you should be more sensible.'

'I _am_ sensible, thank you very much,' John felt a pink anger rise in his chest, ready to turn red any minute. 'I am _very_ sensible! So sensible that I suggested we'd take a car as you might remember. And if we'd taken a car, we'd not have ended here. In this bloody barn, in bloody nowhere, bloody soaking wet!'

'Hm,' Sherlock grunted and John's anger blossomed in his chest.

'_Jesus_! Is that all you have to say?' John snapped, 'Any idea what we are going to do now?'

There was a desperate undertone to his voice, and Sherlock finally turned around and walked over to John. He bent down and looked at him. He found that John looked angry as well as petulant and most of all miserable and he decided to take matters into his hands.

'First of all, we have to get you out of your wet shoes.'

Without waiting for a reply Sherlock squatted on the straw-covered ground and with cold fingers he tried to undo the shoelaces on John's shoes. They were wet and knotted and they simply would not open. 'What _is_ this?' Sherlock muttered impatiently after some unsatisfying moments of shoelace wrestling, but then John took pity and simple slipped out of his shoes, only to immediately resume his unyielding posture.

Sherlock glanced up at him and clicked his tongue, always a sign of mounting impatience. Quickly he peeled away John's wet socks and spread them on a nearby bale to dry. Grabbing a bundle of straw he started to rub warmth back into John's ice cold feet. John did not push him away, but Sherlock sensed his unease, the tension in his body. Rubbing the now dry feet a bit more with his hands, first the left and then the right one, he watched John, and he could feel how hard it was for him not to just snatch away his foot. Instead he simply endured, sitting on this bale of straw, quiet and miserable, deeply hunched into Sherlock's coat.

'There, that's better, isn't it?' Sherlock inwardly winced when he realised that he used the universal soothing words of a _carer_. Busying himself with the straw, covering John's feet generously with it to keep them warm, he also realised that he did not mind as much as he would have thought. A shudder went over John's body and Sherlock looked up.

'What about you?' John asked and the look he gave Sherlock was compelling in its openness. There was elation, maybe because Sherlock was no longer touching him, ruthlessly invading his personal space, but there was also something raw and vulnerable in his gaze, something which forced Sherlock to avert his eyes.

'I'm fine. Don't worry.' Sherlock got up, checking the state of his own shoes and socks, and finding them sufficiently dry, he returned to the door, leaning against the doorpost. Facing different directions they were silent, as there really was nothing to say it seemed, and the relentless pelting of the rain against the roof was the only sound disturbing their thoughts.

'Everything between us would be so much easier if you wouldn't repress your sexual orientation so much.' Sherlock suddenly said in a tone which did not betray his inner feelings. On the contrary he sounded as impassive as if he had been talking about his latest visit to the dentist, an activity falling under the category of boring, but necessary.

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. 'What on earth are you talking about? What the bloody hell has my sexual orientation got to do with anything?'

'I am talking about the fact that you can barely stand me touching you in an innocent manner. I am talking about the fact that you are overly conscious of me being around you, and I don't mean as a friend. Your pulse elevates, your pupils dilate, you lick your lips. John, you show all the signs of sexual interest. But you can't admit it, not to yourself, not to me. I am talking about the fact that right now you would have rather remained freezing and, quite possibly suffering from hypothermia as a result of that, than simply _asking_ me to offer you my coat or my help or ...' he broke off and turned around to face John.

'Or?'

'Or admit that you are attracted to me, admit that you don't mind me touching you, and right now, that it would be best to share the warmth of the coat and our body heat.'

John scoffed, and was ready to lash out and deny all, but then he didn't. For once he did not.

'You mean?'

'Yes, John. Obviously I _mean_.'

John stared at the floor, hoping to find an answer or a hint at how to proceed from here. The wildest thoughts decided to flex their muscles, get ready and compete in a race starting in his head, but aiming for his heart. If he was honest with himself, he knew which of those silly buggers would take the winner's crown. He looked up and smiled at Sherlock.

'Come here, then. Warm me.'

Sherlock frowned, obviously unsure of the truthfulness of John's words.

'I mean it. Come here. To me.'

Sherlock cleared his throat and now that John could actually see the insecurity flashing in those silvery eyes it gave him the courage he needed. He held out a hand and when Sherlock took it, it was their first touch which was not a result of chance or awkwardness or because John had to play A&E and apply emergency stitches.

No, it was a deliberate touch, and it was wanted and it was glorious.

Sherlock wrapped his hand, large and slender around John's, small and strong. John smiled again, weakly, insecurity still nestling in the pit of his stomach, and then pulled Sherlock down next to him onto the bale and wrapped the coat around both of them like a cocoon.

There was a bit of awkward jostling and shuffling about until John's head was resting against Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's arms were wrapped around John, holding the coat tightly around them both. Warmth started spreading in their little woollen shelter and the insecurity which had gripped John just now gently evaporated.

'I don't mind,' John said, a tad surprised and Sherlock chuckled, a pleasant rumble in the confines of his chest.

'Anytime,' Sherlock answered, and they both knew that he meant it.

John lifted his head then and searched Sherlock's face. He wasn't entirely sure what for, though. That this moment was loaded with significance, that it was a game changer, that much was evident, but still he was looking for confirmation. Their eyes locked and then Sherlock gently brushed his nose along John's cheek, creating the most delicate touch. John shivered in response and Sherlock smiled, intensifying his caress, making it more pronounced, using his lips to ghost over John's stubbly cheek and chin and then he kissed him.

* * *

**A/N**

Another fluffy chapter. I don't know I always seem to write fluff in this verse and I truly hope you don't mind! And ... are we even talking about a bedroom here? Well, sort of, if they have to spend the night in the barn, which they probably will have to ... (there might even be another chapter here, what do you think?)

Thank you **nosetothewind94** for this prompt, although you probably had a bit more than fluff in mind?!

And thank you all for your lovely feedback, I really love it! Please be so nice and keep it up :)

JJ xx


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